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THREE  POEMS  OF  THE  WAR 


THREE  POEMS 
OF  THE  WAR  s, 

PAUL  CLAUDEL  •  Translated 
into  English  Verse  by  EDWARD  J. 
O'BRIEN  •  With  the  French  Text. 
Introduction    by    TiERRE    CHAVA^NES 


New  Haven:  YALE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 
London:  HUMPHREY  MILFORD  ::  OXFORD 
UNIVERSITY    PRESS       ^       MDCCCCXIX 


Copyight,  1 91 9,  by 
Tale  University  Tress. 


C51T7 


'These  poems  "toere  recited 
for  the  first  time  by 
<Mlle.  Cve  Francis. 


493234 

FRENCH 


Introduction  to  Three  Poems  of  the  War. 

IN  France  and  elsewhere  these  three  poems  have 
been  greeted  by  different  critics  as  the  most  beauti- 
ful that  the  war  has  so  far  inspired;  and  as  they 
have  won  over  the  critics  they  have  also  won  the 
applause  of  vast  audiences.  They  have  done  more, 
perhaps,  for  the  fame  of  Claudel  than  all  the  work 
he  has  accomplished  in  the  course  of  a  life  that  has  already 
entered  upon  its  second  half.  And  in  this  fact  there  is 
something  strange.  Claudel  is  not  a  "national  poet"  in 
the  ordinary  sense  of  the  term.  He  is  solitary,  even  in 
his  own  country.  He  is  so  partly  by  the  force  of  cir- 
cumstances: nearly  always  away  from  France,  first  as 
consul  in  America,  then  in  China,  lastly  in  Germany, 
he  was  not  borne  to  fame  by  any  literary  school  or  coterie. 
But  solitary  he  is  by  the  very  nature  of  his  mind  and  art. 
In  the  French  literature  of  yesterday  Claudel  appeared 
as  something  of  a  stranger.  Whence  came  he?  He  is 
not  like  any  other  poet,  the  logical  and  incontestable  heir 
of  a  clearly  traced  lineage;  he  does  not  belong  to  the 
French  tradition  of  clearness,  elegance,  measure,  perfec- 

7 


INTRODUCTION 


tion,  united  in  a  form  that  is  far  removed  from  all  excess 
and  from  all  extremes.  His  originality  is  baffling,  and  his 
form  is  strange.  His  vers  libre  may  be  linked,  perhaps, 
with  that  rhythm  of  Rimbaud,  Maurice  de  Guerin, 
Chateaubriand,  and  with  the  beautiful  tradition  of  French 
poetical  prose;  but  based  as  it  is  on  a  personal  theory  of 
respiratory  rhythm,  stamped  with  the  seal  of  an  original- 
ity that  is  forceful,  conscious,  meditated,  it  is  his  alone,  it 
is  "Claudelian  verse."  Furthermore,  Claudel  is  a  reli- 
gious genius.  The  faith  he  holds  is  not  a  comfortable, 
reassuring,  accommodating  and  modern  one;  but  a  harsh 
and  inflexible  faith  which  sometimes  seems  to  delight  in 
all  that  shocks  reason  and  terrifies  sensibility  in  dogma 
and  discipline.  He  has  lived  the  long  drama  of  the  pur- 
suit of  absolute  truth  alone,  and  in  proportion  as  he 
entered  more  deeply  into  the  possession  and  the  knowl- 
edge of  that  truth  it  seemed  as  if  he  were  drawing  away 
from  his  contemporaries;  he  is  the  man  who  embarks 
for  a  mysterious  voyage  and  has  left  wife,  children  and 
friends  behind  on  the  quay;  his  words,  coming  out  of  the 
distance,  arouse,  among  those  who  hear  them,  only  "a 
little  amusement,  a  little  fear" ;  and  their  own  words  are 
not  understood  any  better  by  the  traveller! 

8 


INTRODUCTION 


"...   Art,  science,  the  life  of  freedom   ..."     O 
brothers,  what  is  there  between  you  and  us? 

"Only  let  me  depart,  why  will  you  not  leave  me  in  peace? 
We  will  come  back  no  more  among  you."* 

***** 

War  breaks  out,  disrupting  everything,  entailing  the 
brusque  separation  which  suddenly  carries  the  present 
back  into  the  distant  past.  The  poets,  surprised  by  the 
cataclysm,  attempt  to  sing,  and  into  their  songs  they  put, 
no  doubt,  all  their  soul  and  energy.  But  who  does  not 
feel  how  thin,  feeble  and  inadequate  are  their  voices? 
They  are  lost  in  the  mighty  unbridling  of  forces,  in  the 
great  anonymous  conflict  of  nations  in  arms,  of  civilisa- 
tions at  grips  with  one  another,  of  opposed  ideals, — a 
confused  melee  from  which  will  be  born  in  woe  some 
unknown  future.  This  is  true  of  all;  but  the  voice  of 
those  poets  who  seemed  so  much  of  their  age  is  just  the 
one  which  now  seems  to  us  to  come  from  afar,  from  a 
world  that  is  dead.  Why,  then,  is  it  the  voice  of  the  soli- 
tary traveller  in  metaphysical  lands,  which  is  after  all 
nearer,  firmer,  less  unworthy  of  these  events  which  are 

*  "Corona  Benignitatis  Anni  Dei." 


INTRODUCTION 


carrying  us  along,  and,  as  they  bear  us  away,  are  infi- 
nitely beyond  our  comprehension? 

Claudel's  art  explains  much  of  this  apparent  anomaly. 
His  art,  which  unites  different,  and  at  times  contradictory, 
elements  with  unequal  success,  has  been  much  discussed; 
and  on  so  controversial  a  problem  time  alone  can  pro- 
nounce a  definite  verdict.  But  we  must  recognise  in  it  the 
quality  of  greatness.  Claudel's  art  did  not  have  to  exert 
itself  to  attain  that  gravity,  to  sound  that  Dorian  mode 
which  alone  is  worthy  of  the  poetry  of  war :  he  was  at  once 
equal  to  events;  he  was  ready.  In  these  poems,  in  which 
Claudel's  qualities  seem  to  have  attained  a  happy  equilib- 
rium, his  poetry — as  always  with  Claudel — is  like  some 
massive  piece  of  architecture,  the  logical  arrangement  is 
rigorous  and  simple,  a  help  rather  than  a  hindrance  to  the 
sentiment.  It  is  clothed  in  a  wealth  of  images,  full  of 
fresh  power  culled  directly  from  life  by  a  poet  whose 
vision  is  both  naive  and  studied.  Claudel,  by  the  rugged 
freshness  of  his  images  and  by  this  direct  contact  with  the 
world,  resembles  Whitman  a  little,  but  he  is  the  Whitman 
of  an  older  traditional  civilisation,  the  old  peasant,  war- 
like, Catholic  nation  of  France. 

This  grave  eloquence,  present  in  all  three  poems,  differs 

IO 


INTRODUCTION 


somewhat  in  each.  Familiar  and  popular  in  the  first,  it 
shows  something  of  the  brusqueness,  fervor  and  intensity, 
that  hallucination — or  illumination — which  is  seen  in  the 
eyes  of  those  who  return  from  the  combat;  at  the  same 
time  it  has  the  great  impassioned  movement  and  the  sub- 
lime inspiration  which  bear  up  a  whole  nation  through 
the  suffering  and  horrors  of  the  conflict,  enabling  it  to 
make  its  willing  and  supreme  sacrifice:  , 

"As  often  as  you  will,  Sir!     O  France,  as  often  as  thou 
wilt!" 

The  second  poem  is  the  most  Claudelian.  Chateau- 
briand, speaking  of  the  murder  of  a  poor  Italian  fisher- 
man by  Napoleon,  said:  "There  is  blood  that  is  dumb, 
and  blood  that  cries  aloud:  the  blood  of  the  battlefield 
is  drunk  silently  by  the  earth;  the  peaceful  blood  that  is 
spilt  spurts  out,  groaning,  towards  heaven.  God  sees  it 
and  avenges."  Claudel  takes  over  this  mystical  idea  and 
gives  it  a  deeper  significance;  it  is  the  earth  itself  which 
revolts  against  the  slaughter  of  the  innocent:  the  crime 
is  contrary  to  her  nature;  and  the  corpse  of  the  innocent, 
terrible  seed,  germinates  like  corn  in  the  ground,  pro- 
ducing slowly  its  harvest,  the  terrible  harvest  of  justice  and 

ii 


INTRODUCTION 


anger.     The  guns  may  thunder;  they  will  not  succeed  in 
destroying  silence: 

"You  will  not  succeed  in  replacing  in  your  hearts  the 
voices  now  forever  silent, 
The  unforgiving  voices  of  those  you  killed  and  who 
nevermore  will  speak." 

The  vision  develops  with  a  Biblical  strain:  the  con- 
demned army,  "doomed  never  to  return,"  hopelessly 
caught  between  two  armies,  in  front  the  army  of  the 
enemy,  and  behind  them  another  army,  the  army  of  the 
murdered,  rising  again: 

"Hear  the  dead  reviving  just  at  thy  back,  and  behind  thee 
in  the  God-filled  night, 
The  breath  of  resurrection  passing  o'er  thy  crime  on  the 
crowds!" 

After  the  heroic  fever  of  the  assault  and  the  mad  sacri- 
fice, after  the  prophetic  imprecation  and  the  cry  of  the 
"blood  of  righteous  Abel  spilt  on  the  ground,"  the  third 
poem  unfolds  its  broad  harmonies,  sad  but  serene.  After 
the  long  and  cruel  winter,  there  is  in  the  air  a  breath  of 
spring:  can  it  be  the  breath  of  victory?    After  this  clear 

12 


INTRODUCTION 


allegro,  still  touched,  like  a  March  morning,  with  the 
thought  of  winter,  comes  the  poignant  theme  of  the  great 
adagio,  "To  the  Dead  in  the  Armies  of  the  Republic." 

"Is  it  true  you  will  not  see  victory?  is  it  true  you  will  not 
see  summer? 
O  our  brothers  intermingled  with  us,  O  dead,  is  it  true 
that  you  are  wholly  dead?" 

And  the  theme  develops  solemnly,  mingled  with  sad- 
ness and  hope,  with  death  and  victory;  but  at  this  altitude 
of  the  soul,  where  is  life  and  where  is  death?  Death 
creates  life,  triumph  pierces  the  gloom  and  shines  over 
the  deepest  sadness;  the  dead  in  the  armies  of  Justice  fight 
by  the  side  of  the  living,  not  "behind  them";  and  this  is 
why  these  armies  of  Justice  are  also  "the  armies  of 
Justice  and  Joy,"  the  "armies  of  the  living  and  the  dead 
all  together." 

This  same  plenitude  of  power  and  richness,  and  this 
same  certainty,  are  also  found  in  the  language  of  the 
poems.  Every  word  in  them  expresses  its  full  meaning 
and  all  its  meanings:  an  intellectual  and  mystical  symbol 
and  at  the  same  time  a  sensible  reality;  and  bold  compari- 
sons derive  from  the  words  a  fresh  resonance,  in  the  same 

13 


INTRODUCTION 


way  that  the  attentive  ear  catches,  as  they  rise  one  after 
another,  the  most  hidden  and  distant  harmonies  from  an 
instrument  played  with  accurate  intonation.  The  Yale 
University  Press  has  rendered  to  this  poetry  the  homage 
which  is  its  due  by  recognising  that  it  could  not  be  trans- 
lated, and  by  reproducing  the  French  text  side  by  side 
with  the  English  rendering. 


But  Claudel's  art  does  not  explain  everything.  More- 
over, if  this  art  is  so  sure  of  its  purpose,  is  it  not  because 
faith  animates  it  and  certainty  carries  it  along?  This 
faith  and  certainty  is  that  this  is  a  holy  war,  and  that  it 
is  necessary  to  fight  and  to  die  "so  long  as  there  is  this 
injustice,  so  long  as  there  is  this  power  rearing  itself 
against  all  powerful  Justice;"  and  if  Claudel  has  been  so 
little  surprised  by  the  catastrophe,  it  is  because  this  cer- 
tainty is  only  a  result  of  his  faith,  this  hope  of  victory  only 
an  aspect  of  his  eternal  hope.  But  this  certainty  is  not 
Claudel's  alone,  it  is  the  certainty  of  France.  In  these 
poems  Claudel  is  no  longer  the  stranger  and  alarming 
solitaire.  Here  he  expresses  through  his  soul  the  great 
soul  we  have  in  common.     And  no  doubt  this  is  because 


INTRODUCTION 


the  traveller  has  "returned  to  us,"  and  because  it  is  not 
only  the  Catholic  but  the  man,  and  not  only  the  man  but 
the  French  man  who  speaks  to  us;  but  it  is  also  because 
many  of  us  have  also  moved  nearer  to  him  and  have  left 
the  unfruitful  lands  of  appearances,  petty  interests,  and 
comfortable  life  and  opinions.  For  two  years  and  more 
France  has  offered  the  spectacle — runsurpassed  by  any- 
thing in  history — of  a  great  nation  unitedly  raising  its 
soul  to  those  higher  regions  whereto,  in  ordinary  times, 
only  some  few  souls  attain;  she  has  penetrated  into  those 
regions  of  the  absolute,  of  certainty  and  of  sacrifice, 
whose  appeal  in  a  not  distant  past  used  to  awaken  "only 
a  little  amusement  and  a  little  fear" ;  and  from  this  flow 
that  naked  simplicity  in  heroism,  and  that  great  calm. 
These  great,  glorious,  suffering  armies  are  doubtless  not 
comprised  wholly  of  Christians,  and  the  eternal  things  in 
which  these  men  believe  are  not  always  those  of  the 
Catholic  faith;  many  who  do  not  believe  or  know  them- 
selves to  be  Christians  might  say  that  Claudel's  thought 
is  too  much  inspired  by  the  Old  Testament,  and,  leaving 
vengeance  to  God,  fight  without  anger  and  prefer  to  think 
of  a  better  world  which  may  result  from  their  sacrifice. 
But  whatever  the  belief  of  her  soldiers  and  the  hope  of 

15 


INTRODUCTION 


her  crowds,  a  vision  is  set  up  for  all;  there  is,  as  a  young 
soldier  wrote  a  few  weeks  before  falling  in  an  attack,  a 
"spiritual  element  in  this  war,  a  dove  of  purest  white 
which  hovers  over  our  armies."  They  all  feel — even  the 
most  unenlightened  souls  and  the  most  doubting  minds — 
that  if  they  are  willing  to  die,  it  is  not  only  in  order  that 
France  may  live,  it  is  that  something  better  may  be  born 
to  the  world;  that  it  is  better  they  should  die  in  order  that 
conscience  and  faith  in  justice  may  live  among  men,  that 
they  must  conquer  in  order  to  save  the  gentle  virtues  and 
elevated  human  beliefs,  the  rights  of  the  weak,  and  free- 
dom for  each  man  to  live  and  possess  his  soul.  This  is 
the  reason  why  through  all  this  conscious  barbarity,  homi- 
cidal science  and  the  horror  of  these  monstrous  death- 
dealing  machines,  they  remain  men,  "the  sons  of  women"; 
and  why  through  the  agonies  of  grief,  fatigue,  physical 
fear  and  death,  they  go  with  the  certainty  of  the  believer 
who  forgets  the  things  which  are  behind,  and  no  longer 
sees  anything  save  the  things  which  are  before,  the  task 
that  lies  at  hand: 

"Nothing    before    me    in    the    deafening    roar    and    the 
thunder,  save  my  sacrifice  to  make!" 

16 


INTRODUCTION 


In  a  word,  the  strength  of  these  poems  is  that  their  art 

and  their  soul  have  made  them  less  unworthy  than  others 

to  present  a  reflection  of  the  beauty  of  France,  the  France 

of  to-day,  which  is  the  same  as  that  of  yesterday  and  for 

ever,   the   France  that  is   "gay"   and  yet   so  grave,   the 

France  of  clear  vision  and  great-heartedness,  the  France 

which   has   courage   to   understand   and   not   to   say   "I 

believe"  when  she  only  wishes  to  believe,  the  "sceptical" 

France  which  has  faith  to  risk  great  hazards  for  the  sake 

of  humanity,  the  France  which  is  "terrible  as  the  Holy 

Ghost." 

Pierre  Chavannes. 

February,  19 17. 


17 


I. 

Yes,  General,  as  Often  as 
You  Direct! 

EN  times  we  have  attacked  in  there, 
"with  a  purely  local  effect." 

We  must  go  in  there  once  more?  Yes, 
General,  as  often  as  you  direct! 

A  cigarette  first,  and  a  draught  of  wine.    How  good 

it  is.    Your  health,  old  man! 
There  are  too  many  of  them  still  on  their  legs  in  the 

three-seventy-seventh  since  the  fight  began. 

Your  health,  old  comrade!  What  were  you  then  in 
the  comical  days  of  civil  life,  when  we  were 
alive  in  the  land? 

A  hairdresser,  eh?  My  father's  a  banker,  and  I  be- 
lieve his  name  is  Legrand. 

19 


THREE  POEMS  OF  THE  WAR 


Butcher,  cheeseseller,  cure,  farmer,  lawyer,  pedlar, 

leather-cutter, 
A  little  of  everything  here  in  the  trenches,  and  those 

opposite  us  will  see  what  will  emerge  from  all 

this  slaughter! 

We  are  all  brethren  as  like  as  apples,  even  as  perfectly 

naked  children. 
It's  in  civil  life  that  we  were  different,  here  in  the 

ranks  we  are  only  men. 

Fatherless,   motherless,    ageless,   only   claiming   my 

personal  rank  and  number, 
Claiming  only  the  comrade  who  knows  his  duty  to 

me,  at  the  vital  time. 

Behind  me  the  second  echelon  only,  with  me  only  the 
task  that  is  mine, 

Before  me  only  what  I  must  deliver,  amid  the  deafen- 
ing roar  and  thunder! 

Body  and  blood  that  are  mine  to  deliver,  soul  that  is 
mine  to  deliver  to  God, 

20 


THREE  POEMS  OF  THE  WAR 

The  thing  in  my  hand  that  I  must  deliver  to  those  be- 
fore me  who  sully  our  God! 

(So  long  as  I  shall  be  living  flesh,  while  there  is  a 
notch  to  make  in  his  belt, 

So  long  as  there  still  exists  this  kind  of  man  to  con- 
front, my  blow  shall  be  dealt!) 

If  the  shell  does  its  work,  well,  after  all,  'tis  a  human 

soul  that  is  going  to  spring! 
The  bayonet  then?    The  iron  tongue  that  draws  me 

is  more  just  and  a  thirstier  thing! 

Attention,  all  in  the  trench,  to  our  Chief  when  he 

starts  to  lift  his  gun!    And  a  host 
Of  us  will  go  forth,  for  we  are  France,  and  terrible  as 

the  Holy  Ghost! 

While  those  confront  us  who  hold  what  is  ours  under 

the  soles  of  their  dirty  boots, 
While  this  injustice  of  force  confronts  our  justice 

which  has  the  stronger  roots, 

While  there  is  one  who  does  not  succumb,  whose  face 
responds  to  the  summons  of  right, 

21 


THREE  POEMS  OF  THE  WAR 


While  a  Frenchman  lives  with  a  laughing  face  who 
believes  in  the  things  of  eternal  light, 

While  his  future  exists  to  be  laid  on  the  table,  while 

his  life  survives  for  him  to  give, 
His  life  and  the  lives  of  all  his  people,  my  wife  and 

children  for  me  to  give, 

While  fire  and  steel  are  the  only  things  to  halt  the 

advance  of  a  living  man, 
While  living  flesh  of  France  can  cross  your  accursed 

threads  of  steel  in  the  van, 

While  a  child  of  woman  can  march  across  the  pomps 

of  your  science  and  chemistry, 
While  the  honor  of  France  shines  more  clear  in  our 

hearts  than  the  light  of  the  sun  on  a  noonday  sea, 

While  the  glorious  land  behind  us  listens  and  prays 

and  is  silent  through  the  night, 
While  our  everlasting  vocation  shall  be  to  trample 

upon  your  paunchy  might, 

22 


THREE  POEMS  OF  THE  WAR 

As  often  as  you  direct,  to  the  end !  while  a  single  man 
of  them  survives!  While  a  single  living  man 
survives,  our  living  and  dead  shall  fight  to 
effect! 

Yes,  General,  as  often  as  you  shall  order!  O  France, 
as  often  as  you  direct! 

June,  19 1 5. 


23 


II. 

Behind  Them. 

"They  will  assemble  behind  them." — The  Cure  of  Ars. 

THE  blood   unjustly  shed   sinks  slowly 
into  earth. 
The  simple  skyey  dews  and  great  clean 
rains  give  birth 
To  fertile  harvests,  corn  and  grain,  the  pride  of  Hes- 

baye  and  Brabant. 
Yet  gentler  to  its  veins  for  that  it  mingles  with  our 

blood  to  plant 
The  red  soul  of  her  sons  in  her,  the  offering  of  milk 

and  wine 
The  soldier  gave  defending  her  in  death,  erect  and 

armed  in  line! 
A  solemn  gift,  his  love  defined  in  stubble  field  and 
deep-ploughed  land, 

25 


THREE  POEMS  OF  THE  WAR 

Old  Adam's  clay  rewatered  now,  man  bound  to  dust 
by  a  noble  band! 

But  your  conscription,  chalked  like  cattle,  of  chil- 
dren, women,  and  old  men, 

This  heap  in  a  corner,  helter-skelter,  suddenly  foam- 
ing, still  hot  with  life,  in  the  smoking  gutters  of 
the  pen, 

Like  the  grapes  in  the  winepress,  the  black  blood 
spurting  unchecked  from  the  wounds  of  men, 

This  fearful  vintage  smearing  all  things,  of  which 
we  all  perforce  have  quaffed, 

Are  things  of  which  the  earth  has  horror,  a  deed  that 
nature  spurns,  the  draught 

Of  which  flows  slowly  in  her  veins,  and  rises,  mur- 
derers, ever  deeper,  ever  greater  than  your 
thirst! 

Are  you  unmindful  she  conceives  of  seed  which  you 
have  planted  first? 

As  the  long  winter's  maceration  and  the  brooding  of 
three  seasons'  fold 

The   grain,    long   dreamed,    before    it   sprouts    and 

26 


THREE  POEMS  OF  THE  WAR 

climbs  and  shows  a  blade,  to  promise  a  harvest 

rich  a  hundredfold, 
Lo,  more  truly  you  have  buried  the  seed  and  stamped 

it  with  your  foot, 
And  out  of  the  womb  of  the  slain  shall  flower  the  un- 
conquerable fruit! 
Discharge  and  rumble,  day  and  night!  shoot  all  your 

pieces  together!  thunder,  German  guns! 
Fire  your  four-twenty  mortar  at  heaven  like  a  dark 

smoky  volcano,  Huns! 
Across  the  unceasing  assault  of  your  power  which  we 

have  yet  unceasingly  checked, 
Troops,  marked  to  return  no  more,  our  impregnable 

silence  you  cannot  affect! 
You  shall  never  replace  in  your  hearts  the  voice  you 

have  forever  killed, 
The  mouth  that  pardons  not  of  the  slain  whose  words 

your  will  has  forever  stilled! 
Intrench    yourselves,    beleaguered    people!    spread 

your  net  of  impassable  steel! 

Grave-diggers  of  your  own  battalions,  dig  without 
rest  your  own  graves  in  the  field! 

27 


THREE  POEMS  OF  THE  WAR 


What  stamps  in  your  ranks  all  day  and  night,  what 

gladly  rings  in  your  ears  is  not  all! 
A  mighty  and  soundless  army  assembles  behind  your 

ranks,  though  you  hear  no  call! 
From    Louvain    unto    Rethel,    from   Termonde    to 

Nomeny, 
The  heaped  earth  stirs  with  life,  and  a  great  black 

spot  spreads  free! 
A  frontier  stands  behind  you  closed  more  firmly  than 

the  Rhine! 
Hearken,  O  you  people  standing  among  us  others, 

hearken,  Cain! 
Hearken  to  the  dead  behind  you  stir  again;  this  night 

behind 
You  breathes  the  day  of  resurrection  passing  on  your 

populous  crime! 
Race  of  locusts  eating  men,  the  time  comes  when  you 

must  recoil! 
Step  by  step  the  time  comes  when  you  must  repass 

the  bloody  soil! 
Come  with  us,  O  race  of  helmets.    Too  many  meshes 

hold  us  lest  we  bend ! 

28 


THREE  POEMS  OF  THE  WAR 


Object  of  our  long  desire,  we  hold  you  firmly  to  the 

end! 
Behold  the  fordless  stream  of  Justice,  innocent  arms 

around  you  clinging  inescapable  as  briars! 
And  feel  with  all  our  dead  beneath  your  feet  the  earth 

that  yields  and  sinks  to  everlasting  fires! 

yuney  1 9 1 5 . 


29 


III. 

To  the  Dead  in  the  Armies  of 
the  Republic. 

OUR  days  of  gloom  recede.     The  lovely 
sun  anew 
Shines  in  a  sky  of  blue. 
Now  is  the  end  of  winter,  now  is  the 
coming  of  spring, 
Morning  in  flaxen  robe  doth  sing. 
After  the  raven's  alarms  and  the  whistling  wail  of 
the  wind 
The  blackbird's  note  is  kind! 
From  his  hole  in  the  hollow  plane  just  now  I  have 
seen  creep 
An  insect  slow  with  sleep. 
The  world  is  alight,  the  world  is  warm,  it  opens,  it 
is  free, 
A  white  serenity, 

3i 


THREE  POEMS  OF  THE  WAR 

A  pure  and  simple  joy  in  bud  and  bloom, 
Faith  in  the  summer  that  comes  soon. 

I  feel  on  my  cheek  the  caress  of  a  breeze  with  its 
gentle  dance! 
I  know  it,  it  is  France! 

Soft  and  simple,  but  urgent!  yes,  it  is  she! 
The  wind  of  victory! 

Heroes,  whose  lives  have  been  sown  in  mass  in  the 

ground,  like  grain, 
Pure  wheat,  whose  narrow  furrow  they  shall  not  pass 

has  been  filled  with  slain, 
Whose  flame  and  thunder  roars  from  the  Vosges  to 

the  North  Sea, 
To  you   the  dead,   in   the   steps  of   the   living,   my 

thoughts  now  flee! 
Is  it  true  you  will  never  see  the  victory,  never  see  the 

summer  light? 
O  dead,  our  brothers  mingled  with  us,  is  it  true  you 

are  lost  in  the  endless  night? 
You  whose  youthful  bodies  piled  filled  the  winter's 

abyss  with  slain, 

32 


THREE  POEMS  OF  THE  WAR 


Dimmed  by  the  left  bank  of  the  Yser,  dimmed  by  the 

right  bank  of  the  Aisne, 
You  who  far  from  the  light  of   the  sun   and   the 

laughter  of  hope  have  fought, 
Obeying  orders,  strictly  forbidden  any  other  thought 
Than  to  do  what  the  general  told  you  to  do,  and  at 

any  cost  hold  fast, 
Soldiers  of  the  great  buried  Reserve,  has  the  roar  of 

the  cannon  ceased  at  last? 
Do  you  not  hear  our  line  advancing,  tearing  itself 

from  the  clinging  Earth, 
Nor  feel  the  enemy  yielding  a  little,  in  the  wonderful 

hour  of  our  Victory's  birth? 
Ah !  we  have  held  them  with  us  too  long  in  the  depths 

of  that  gloomy  track, 
Body  to  body  with  striving  muscles,  heart  against 

heart  and  back  to  back! 
Rise,  intermingled  brothers,  rise,  lo!  space  is  free  for 

our  armies  in  flower, 
Tremendous  battalions  marching  on  in  golden  sun- 
light and  April  shower! 

33 


THREE  POEMS  OF  THE  WAR 

Feed  the  storming  van  of  our  host  with  your  inex- 
haustible yield, 

Our  people  striding  slow  and  sure  like  a  man  in 
sabots  who  sows  his  field, 

Crested  with  our  birds  of  war,  followed  by  our 
wagons  and  trains  on  a  line  of  six  hundred  miles, 
until 

Little  by  little  the  other  people  is  thrust  and  driven 
back  biting  and  stamping,  but  feeling  the  power 
of  its  master's  will! 

As  a  wealthy  farmer  looks  all  around,  and  sees  his 
lines  of  mowers  advance, 

Lo!  nearer  and  nearer  the  bank  of  the  Meuse,  singly 
approaches  the  yoke  of  all  the  armies  of  France! 

And  now  the  German  forests  and  mountains  trem- 
bling emerge  in  the  distant  haze! 

O  dead,  do  you  feel  the  heavenly  fragrance,  eternal 
reward  of  heroic  days, 

Won  at  last  the  sight  and  scent,  body  and  soul  of  it 
all  at  hand, 

Slaking  your  thirst  for  ever  and  ever  in  the  con- 
quered enemy's  land! 

34 


THREE  POEMS  OF  THE  WAR 


The  frontier  trampled  oaths  have  opened,  force  it 

with  your  swelling  bands! 
Enter,  Armies  of  Justice  and  Joy,  enter  your  freely 

Promised  Lands! 
Ah!  the  bread  in  my  mouth  is  bitter,  sour  indeed  is 

my  draught  of  wine, 
Armies  of  the  quick  and  the  dead,  till  we  slake  our 

thirst  in  the  deep  Rhine! 

zJlfCarcfi,  191 5. 


35 


TROIS  POEMES  DE  GUERRE 


I. 

Tant  Que  Vous  Voudrez,  Mon 

General! 

IX  fois  qu'on  attaque  la-dedans,   "avec 

resultat  purement  local." 
II  faut  y  aller  une  fois  de  plus?    Tant 
que  vous  voudrez,  mon  General! 

Une  cigarette  d'abord.  Un  coup  de  vin,  qu'il  est 
bon!    Allons,  mon  vieux,  a  la  tienne! 

Y  en  a  trop  sur  leurs  jambes  encore  dans  le  trois  cent 
soixante-dix-septieme. 

A  la  tienne,  vieux  frere!  Qu'est-ce  que  tu  etais  dans 
le  civil,  en  ce  temps  drole  ou  c'  qu'on  etait 
vivants? 

Coiffeur?  Moi,  mon  pere  est  banquier  et  je  crois 
bien  qu'il  s'appelait  Legrand. 

39 


THREE  POEMS  OF  THE  WAR 


Boucher,  marchand  de  fromages,  cure,  cultivateur, 
avocat,  colporteur,  coupeur  de  cuir, 

Y  a  de  tout  dans  la  tranchee  et  ceux  d'en  face,  ils 
vont  voir  ce  qu'il  en  va  sortir! 

Tous  freres  comme  des  enfants  tout  nus,  tous  pareils 

comme  des  pommes. 
C'est  dans  le  civil  qu'on  etait  differents,  dans  le  rang 

il  n'y  a  plus  que  des  hommesf 

Plus  de  pere  ni  de  mere,  plus  d'age,  plus  que  le  grade 

et  que  le  numero, 
Plus  rien  que  le  camarade  qui  sait  ce  qu'il  a  a  faire 

avec  moi,  pas  trop  tard  et  pas  trop  tot. 

Plus  rien  derriere  moi  que  le  deuxieme  echelon,  avec 

moi  que  le  travail  a  faire, 
Plus  rien  devant  moi  que  ma  livraison  a  operer  dans 

l'assourdissement  et  le  tonnerre! 

Livraison  de  mon  corps  et  de  mon  sang,  livraison  de 

mon  ame  a  Dieu, 
Livraison  aux  messieurs  d'en  face  de  cette  chose  dans 

ma  main  qui  est  pour  eux! 

40 


THREE  POEMS  OF  THE  WAR 

(Tant  qu'il  y  aura  quelqu'un  dans  ma  peau,  tant 
qu'il  y  aura  un  cran  a  faire  a  sa  ceinture, 

Tant  qu'il  y  aura  le  type  en  face  qui  me  regarde  dans 
la  figure!) 

Si  la  bombe  fait  de  l'ouvrage,  qu'est-ce  que  c'est 
qu'une  ame  humaine  qui  va  sauter! 

La  baionnette?  cette  espece  de  langue  de  fer  qui  me 
tire  est  plus  droite  et  plus  alteree! 

Y  a  de  tout  dans  la  tranchee,  attention  au  chef  quand 

il  va  lever  son  fusil! 
Et  ce  qui  va  sortir,  c'est  la  France,  terrible  comme  le 

Saint-Esprit! 

Tant  qu'il  y  aura  ceux  d'en  face  pour  tenir  ce  qui 
est  a  nous  sous  la  semelle  de  leurs  bottes, 

Tant  qu'il  y  aura  cette  injustice,  tant  qu'il  y  aura 
cette  force  contre  la  justice  qui  est  la  plus  forte, 

Tant  qu'il  y  aura  quelqu'un  qui  n'accepte  pas,  tant 
qu'il  y  aura  cette  face  vers  la  justice  qui  appelle, 

Tant  qu'il  y  aura  un  Frangais  avec  un  eclat  de  rire 
pour  croire  dans  les  choses  eternelles, 

4i 


THREE  POEMS  OF  THE  WAR 


Tant  qu'il  y  aura  son  avenir  a  plaquer  sur  la  table, 

tant  qu'il  y  aura  sa  vie  a  donner, 
Sa  vie  et  celle  de  tous  les  siens  a  donner,  ma  femme  et 

mes  petits  enf  ants  avec  moi  pour  les  donner, 

Tant  que  pour  arreter  un  homme  vivant  il  n'y  aura 

que  le  feu  et  que  le  fer, 
Tant  qu'il  y  aura  de  la  viande  vivante  de  Frangais 

pour  marcher  a  travers  vos  sacres  fils  de  fer, 

Tant  qu'il  y  aura  un  enfant  de  femme  pour  marcher 
a  travers  votre  science  et  votre  chimie, 

Tant  que  l'honneur  de  la  France  avec  nous  luit  plus 
clair  que  le  soleil  en  plein  midi, 

Tant  qu'il  y  aura  ce  grand  pays  derriere  nous  qui 
ecoute  et  qui  prie  et  qui  fait  silence, 

Tant  que  notre  vocation  eternelle  sera  de  vous 
marcher  sur  la  panse, 

Tant  que  vous  voudrez,  jusqu'a  la  gauche!  tant  qu'il 
y  en  aura  un  seul!  Tant  qu'il  y  en  aura  un  de 
vivant,  les  vivants  et  les  morts  tous  a  la  fois! 

Tant  que  vous  voudrez,  mon  general!     O  France, 

tant  que  tu  voudras! 

Juiny  19 1 5. 

42 


II. 

Derriere  Eux. 

"On  se  reunlra  derriere  eux." — Le  Cure  d'Ars. 

IE  sang  injustement  repandu  est  long  a  penetrer 
dans  la  terre. 
j  C'est  la  rosee  des  cieux  innocente  qui  est 
~Jm      pour  elle  et  la  large  pluie  salutaire 
Qui  ressort  en  moissons  plantureuses,  fourrage  et  ble, 

orgueil  de  la  Hesbaye  et  du  Brabant. 
Plus  douce  encore  a  ses  veines  toutefois  quand  il  vient 

s'y  meler,  s'il  faut  du  sang, 
L'ame  rouge  dans  elle  de  ses  fils  et  la  libation  comme 

du  lait  et  comme  du  vin 
Du  soldat  qui  pour  la  defendre  est  tombe,  les  armes 

a  la  main! 
Solennelle  donation,  definitif  amour  dans  le  labour 
et  dans  Teteule, 

43 


THREE  POEMS  OF  THE  WAR 


Glaise  rehumectee  de  l'antique  Adam  par  quoi  la 

terre  et  l'homme  redeviennent  comme  un  seul! 
Mais  cette  conscription  et  le  marquage  a  la  craie 

comme  des  betes,  pour  la  mort,  des  enfants,  des 

femmes  et  des  vieillards, 
Cette  entassement  pele-mele  dans  un  coin,  et  tout  a 

coup  ecumeuse,  et  toute  chaude  encore  de  vie, 

et  fumante  par  tous  les  echenaux  de  l'abattoir, 
Comme  la  grappe  sous  le  madrier,  cette  sortie  impe- 

tueuse  du  sang  noir, 
Cette  vendange  affreuse  dont  on  la  barbouille  et  qu'on 

lui  fait  boire  de  force, 
Sont  des  choses  dont  la  terre  a  horreur,  et  une  ceuvre 

au  rebours  d'elle-meme,  et  Tamorce 
De  cette  coupe  lentement  dans  son  cceur  qui  remonte 

vers   vous,    meurtriers,    plus    profonde   et   plus 

large  que  votre  soif ! 
Vous   qui    l'avez   ensemencee,   oubliez-vous   qu'elle 

concoit? 
Comme  il  faut  la  maceration  de  tout  Thiver  et  la 

pensee  de  trois  saisons 
Pour   que    le    grain    longuement   medite   germe   et 

44 


THREE  POEMS  OF  THE  WAR 


pousse  et  s'atteste  epi,  promesse  d'une  centuple 

moisson, 
Tel,  et  plus  vous  avez  enseveli  la  semence  et  plus  vous 

l'avez  pietinee, 
L'incoercible  fruit  qui  sort  du  ventre  des  assassines! 
Roule,  fusillade,  jour  et  nuit!  feu  de  vos  pieces  toutes 

a  la  fois!  tonnez,  canons  allemands! 
Que  le  coup  du  mortier  de  quatre  cent  vingt  vers  le 

ciel    dans    une    montagne    noire    de    fumee    se 

decharge  comme  un  volcan! 
A  travers  le  continuel  assaut  et  la  continuelle  resis- 
tance, 
Troupes  marquees  pour  ne  plus  revenir,  vous  n'arri- 

verez  pas  a  detruire  le  silence, 
Vous  n'arriverez  pas  a  remplacer  dans  vos  cceurs 

cette  voix  a  jamais  qui  s'est  tue, 
La  bouche  sans  pardon  de  ceux  que  vous  avez  tues 

et  qui  ne  parleront  plus! 
Retranche-toi,  peuple  assiege!  etends  tes  impassables 

reseaux  de  fll  de  fer! 
Fossoyeurs  de  vos  propres  bataillons,  sans  relache 

faites  votre  fosse  dans  la  terre! 

45 


THREE  POEMS  OF  THE  WAR 

Ce  qui  tape  jour  et  nuit  dans  vos  rangs,  ce  qui  sonne 

joyeusement  en  face  n'est  pas  tout! 
II  y  a  une  grande  armee  sans  aucun  bruit  qui  se  ras- 

semble  derriere  vous! 
Depuis  Louvain  jusqu'a  Rethel,  depuis  Termonde 

jusques  a  Nomeny, 
II  y  a  de  la  terre  mal  tassee  qui  s'agite  et  une  grande 

tache  noire  qui  s'elargit! 
II  y  a  une  frontiere  derriere  vous  qui  se  referme  plus 

infranchissable  que  le  Rhin! 
Ecoute,    peuple    qui    es    parmi    les    autres    peuples 

comme  Cain! 
Entends  les  morts  dans  ton  dos  qui  revivent,  et  dans 

la  nuit  derriere  toi  pleine  de  Dieu, 
Le  souffle  de  la  resurrection  qui  passe  sur  ton  crime 

populeux! 
Peuple  de  sauterelles  mangeur  d'hommes,  le  temps 

vient  que  tu  seras  force  de  reculer! 
Le  vestige  que  tu  as  fait  dans  le  sang,  pas  a  pas  le 

temps  vient  que  tu  vas  y  repasser! 
Viens  avec  nous,   peuple  casque.     II  y  a  trop  de 

46 


THREE  POEMS  OF  THE  WAR 


choses  entre  toi  et  nous  a  jamais  pour  nous  en 

dessaisir! 
Nous  te  tenons  done  a  la  fin,  objet  de  notre  long  desir! 
Voici  le  fleuve  sans  gue  de  la  Justice,  voici  les  bras 

des  innocents  autour  de  toi  inextricables  comme 

des  ronces! 
Ressens  la  terre  sous  tes  pieds  pleine  de  morts  qui  est 

molle  et  qui  enfonce! 

J uiny  1 9 1 5 . 


47 


III. 

Aux  Morts  des  Armees  de  la 
Republique. 

DE  nouveau  apres  tant  de  sombres  jours  le 
soleil  delicieux 
Brille  dans  le  ciel  bleu. 
L'hiver  bientot  va  finir,.  bientot  le  prin- 
temps  commence,  et  le  matin 
S'avance  dans  sa  robe  de  lin. 
Apres  le  corbeau  affreux  et  le  sifflement  de  la  bise 
gemissante, 
J'entends  le  merle  qui  chante! 
Sur  le  platane  tout  a  l'heure  j'ai  vu  sortir  de  son  trou 

Un  insecte  lent  et  mou. 
Tout  s'illumine,  tout  s'echauffe,  tout  s'ouvre,  tout  se 
degage ! 
Peu  a  peu  croit  et  se  propage 

49 


THREE  POEMS  OF  THE  WAR 

Une  espece  de  joie  pure  et  simple,  une  espece  de 
serenite, 
La  foi  dans  le  futur  ete! 
Ce  souffle  encore  incertain  dont  je  sens  ma  joue  ca- 
ressee, 
C'est  la  France,  je  le  sais! 
Ah,  qu'elle  est  douce,  car  c'est  elle!  naive  mais  per- 
emptoire, 
L'haleine  de  la  Victoire! 

Heros,  qui  avez  ete  verses  en  masse  dans  la  terre 

comme  du  ble, 
Froment  pur  dont  l'etroit  sillon   impassable  a  ete 

comble, 
Qui    flamboie    et   qui    foudroie    depuis    les    Vosges 

jusqu'a  la  Mer  du  Nord, 
C'est  a  vous  que  va  mon  pensee,  vous  surtout  dans  les 

pieds  des  vivants  qui  etes  les  morts! 
Est-ce  vrai  que  vous  ne  verrez  pas  la  victoire?  est-ce 

vrai  que  vous  ne  verrez  pas  l'ete? 
O  nos  f  reres  entremeles  avec  nous,  6  morts,  est-ce  vrai 

que  vous  etes  morts  tout  entiers? 

50 


THREE  POEMS  OF  THE  WAR 

O  vous  qui  de  vos  jeunes  corps  Tun  sur  l'autre  avez 

comble  ce  noir  hiver, 
Obscurcis  de  la  rive  droite  de  l'Aisne  et  de  la  rive 

gauche  de  l'Yser, 
Vous  qui  sans  aucun  soleil  et  sans  aucune  esperance 

combattites, 
Toute  pensee  autre  que  l'ordre  a  executer  severement 

interdite, 
Autre  que  de  faire  ce  que  le  general  a  dit  de  faire  et 

de  tenir  bon, 
Soldats  de  la  grande  Reserve  sous  la  terre,  est-ce  que 

vous  n'entendez  plus  le  canon? 
Est-ce  que  vous  n'entendez  pas  notre  ligne  enfln  qui 

s'arrache  de  la  Terre  et  qui  avance? 
Est-ce  que  vous  ne  sentez  pas  l'ennemi  tout  a  coup  qui 

a    plie    un    peu    et    le    depart    de    la    Victoire 

immense? 
Ah,  trop  longtemps  nous  les  avons  tenus  avec  nous  au 

fond  de  la  funebre  piste, 
Cceur  contre  coeur,  corps  a  corps,  dans  l'etreinte  une 

seule  chose  ensemble  et  le  travail  de  nos  muscles 

antagonistes! 

51 


THREE  POEMS  OF  THE  WAR 


Debout,   freres  entremeles,   et  voyez   l'espace  libre 

devant  nous,  et  nos  armees 
Qui  marchent  par  enormes  bataillons  dans  le  soleil  et 

dans  la  giboulee! 
Nourrissez  de  vos  rangs  inepuisables  notre  front  ful- 
minant, 
Notre  peuple  qui  d'un  pas  lent  et  sur  comme  l'homme 

en  sabots  qui  ensemence  son  champ, 
Surmonte  de  ses  oiseaux  de  guerre  et  suivi  de  ses 

fourgons  et  de  ses  convois  sur  une  ligne  de  neuf 

cents  kilometres, 
Refoule  et  renfonce  dans  ses  portes  peu  a  peu  l'autre 

peuple  qui  mord  et  qui  tape  encore,  mais  qui  sent 

son  maitre! 
Comme  un  puissant  fermier  de  toutes  parts  qui  voit 

s'avancer  la  ligne  de  ses  faucheuses, 
L'attelage  de  toutes  nos  armees  tire  d'un  seul  mouve- 

ment  vers  la  Meuse, 
Et  deja  paraissent  les  forets,  les  montagnes  et  l'hori- 

zon  germanique! 
O  morts,  la  sentez-vous  avec  nous,  l'odeur  de  votre 

paradis  heroique, 

52 


THREE  POEMS  OF  THE  WAR 

La  possession  a  la  fin  avec  son  corps  de  la  chose  qu'on 

vous  avait  promise, 
Le  grand  assouvissement  pour  toujours  de  la  terre 

ennemie  que  l'on  a  conquise! 
La  frontiere  que  le  parjure  a  ouverte,  forcez-la  de 

vos  rangs  accumules! 
Entrez,  armees  de  la  Justice  et  de  la  Joie,  dans  la 

terre  qui  vous  a  ete  donnee! 
Ah,  ma  soif  ne  sera  pas  desalteree  et  le  pain  ne  sera 

pas  bon, 
Armees  des  vivants  et  des  morts,  jusqu'a  ce  que  nous 

avons  bu  ensemble  dans  le  Rhin  profond! 

zM~ars,  19 1 5. 


53 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


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